Creation
by Warg
Summary: A collection of tales that thread together the past and present of Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu, while its future rests in the unwilling hands of a young redhead.
1. Introduction, of the last

Creation 

_Prelude: In the begging there was only a brave boy and a gleaming blade in the heavens.._

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The tiny hand reached into his hair. Milk-white nubs lacing red-orange locks. His voice never wavered. Steadily rising, then falling with the trilled chorus.

Not once since he had grasped that he, too, could create had the man ceased. In the silent nights, and then the pain, the tears, the cries and shrieks that split his heart—his blessing, her curse—now past, he had found for himself a voice.

His friends, no, his family, called it strong, lilting, and heartfelt. He simply found it soothing.

His eyes were lightly shut as he moved with the slow rhythm of the low lullaby. A simple child-song, altogether common. He had not heard it in his childhood, but he heard it, now, because of his child.

A contented sigh melted into the soft hum.

He cradled him, his son, in his lean muscled arms, loosely, surely. The child had freedom, to move, to play.

Kenshin opened his eyes as the tiny head nestled deeper into the soft fabric of his new gi, midnight blue, like the sky beyond the open window.

Two hearts beat as one, the son's easing, slowing, the father's swiftly speeding, in the warmth that was both still new and familiar.

Midway through the song, he broke off, breathing in the newness.

"Koishii!" the warm, throaty cry brought a wide smile to his lips.

"She needs me." He whispered to the little sleeper. "Us, needs me; we need us", he finally corrected.

He drew up his precious bundle in one arm and deftly drew the curtains. And moved off, into the waiting darkness.

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He strode along the non-existent path, rocks crunching underfoot, his lithe form offset against the bare cliff face.

Hard-set eyes in a stony face marked his way in the still, sunless, morning.

The first of the rays he met with a scowl, even as they set aflame his red-orange mane.

The path crackled underfoot, his tender hands moved low to steady him when his feet strayed. He rose every time; swiftly, angrily. Head held aloof, determined. He moved on.

It wasn't far now, the little shack atop the mountain.

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A-Notes: So I almost choked from the utter WAFFiness, but Kenshin deserves at least that much.

As always a huge thanx to my beta **Sueb262**..

Updates on this will be sporadic at best, Ashes still retains priority.

This is a bit of a present for a dear friend, but I hope everyone enjoys anyway..


	2. of others

**of others**

_In the beginning, there was a brave boy and a gleaming blade in the heavens._

_And drawn to its radiance, he rose ever higher.._

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Much appreciated beta-ing by **lolo popoki** and **musicsage92**, thanks you two.

Oh, a little hint, connect the seasons.. :D

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At last, the clearing breathed free, released from the spell; skill and strength, sheer power and god-like execution. The dragon ceased, winded. He ended his dance.

He could once more hear the rhythmic monotone of the water cascading soundly, steadily ahead of him. Bodily he drew away, separating himself from it. He dropped his gaze as ki seemed to dwindle and overlap and merge—the ripples, an arm's length away, reacted, obeying.

A smirk, characteristic and familiar, made its way to his lips as he turned and headed back. The swish and billow of his cape followed closely by the crashing of a swell of water. His grin only grew as he retrieved his precious jug from its high perch.

Strides strong, he seemed to enjoy the treacherous, dipping, rocky pathways that meandered up and down as he made his sure way back home. The slight autumn breeze tickled his long hair and ran cool fingers across his sweat matted face and neck. His eyes shone, hard and clear. The sake jug at his side was musical and inviting.

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He rose slowly, depositing the platter of half-eaten, boiled oats beside the steaming pot of miso soup. His gaze sharpened, boring into the worn curtain that filtered in what little light gained entry to the cluttered up cabin.

Even this light dimmed, a soft shadow had stolen across the drape. Geta were visible beneath the fraying hem.

The cloth was bunched up and slowly drawn.

A delicate seeming face peered in between the doorframe, his head a torch in the summer sun, a mix of hot glass and cool gold. Soft nightshade eyes stood out in the cool shade, unobtrusive, friendly and not the least bit frazzled by the stern gaze that Hiko held him in.

The large man shoved past the redheaded swordsman, for indeed a blade rested at his side, very much a part of him, and out through the doorway before his mouth could shape out the polite greeting.

Kenshin stood upon the doorframe, a smile firmly plastered on his features, though his eyes were lowered as if in defeat. He made to open his mouth once more but was silenced by a raised hand from Hiko, who grunted a curt order and walked away.

Kenshin entered the shack in silence. Feeling cold in the sudden gloom.

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The climb had grown easier for Kenji.

Though he'd never admit it, just when he'd begun to second guess this "adventure"—the steep gradient and the treacherous rock face drilling the danger into his inexperienced mind—did the climb ease.

The slope gently undulated, an easily followed track leading steadily higher. Hemmed with sparse, short trees and thorny bush.

Fatigue had caught up surely as the adrenaline from the demanding climb drained. It didn't help that he hadn't slept the night before, and had been walking for hours, long before daybreak.

He had made up his mind to not stand "another mindless ramble of that stupid loud woman" and had stubbornly followed through, slipping away from the Aoiya in the relative silence when the residents had gone to bed. Skirting a few alleys, he had re-entered the brightly lit roads of the big city.

Kenji had, en route, decided to climb the mountain that was so often in Yahiko-san's tales. Though he learned that things in the distance were easier seen than reached by the time he arrived at the bone gray foothills.

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He reached the legion of cotton plants, panting, gasping for breath. The expanse ahead was like a field of green spears decked with clotted downy mist hailing the departure of spring. He looked behind, eyes darting in desperate search. No sign of his pursuers, no life to be seen nor sound to be heard. The soft unending whispers of the stalks ahead remained undisturbed.

His fingers tightened around the saya at his side.

Sweeping a large palm across the first of the green stems, he dove in.

The shadows of a nearby stunted oak seemed to elongate and darken, defying the morning sun. Two figures robed in shades of liquid black glided across the grass and merged into the thicket.

The cotton stalks parted lazily as he pressed through, his long black mane skimming the tops, often tangling in the near ripe, milk white, tufts of lint. They swayed and heaved in dizzying, close-knit rows of bright green and cream, near silent as he rushed past. He craned back his neck often, though the same hazy sight met him each time.

With a small effort he tuned out the continual crunch of the shoots as they snapped underfoot, the fresh grass scent filling him deeply. But eyes hardened with each step, for his goal was near, seemingly an arms length away. He clutched at the tall plants and shoved clear a path.

His body tensed all of a sudden. He had felt a shiver run along the rows ahead and around him, as a dark shadow flickered in and out of his vision, only visible by the stark contrast of its surroundings. His face blanched further.

He crashed through the last of the rows, attempts at stealth forgone, and stumbled out of the whispering wall.

A short stretch of grass lead onto the base of the mountain, rising from the ground like bleached bones sullied, grayed with time. He made a mad dash.

The air howling in his ear seemed to tense for a second. Obeying deep-set instincts he dove low even as the low whistle—metal cleaving air—reached him. He caught the twin flashes speeding away, glinting in the sun.

Coiling up, he bounded off the turf. And abruptly stopped.

Two solid figures stood in his path, feet away from the first stony outcroppings. Seeming, more than anything, out of place in their black garb in the swiftly brightening sun.

For a second the risk at hand was forgotten and the boy's lips curled in a sneering smile, as a cutting taunt nearly made its way out. With a light shake of the head, he stopped, inhaling deeply.

The boy met their leers and held it, resolve strengthening.

They knew well that he would not scream for help.

They drew their blades in response to him drawing his. Not a motion wasted the boy noted.

Already he was running through the short span of training he had had under his father, no his master, "Shishou" he intoned.

Ruing the day he'd fled these very mountains, he sunk into a haphazard stance—arms raised high, shoulders squared, feet planted forward—a passable imitation he hoped.

"Drop that, boy!" A silken whisper snaked its way to his ears. It came from behind, he noted, his composure fading fast.

"Put it down and we will make it swift, easy even. You won't feel a thing." The voice croaked out, harsh towards the end, touched with unease.

The boy felt it too, that presence. His brows arched, as his eyes darted up along the stony path.

The man behind him had already broken into a gallop, as the boy reacted, turning to face him. But before his eyes had reached the man, a deafening roar rooted him. In the next instant he was flung flat out on the ground, breath knocked out and ears ringing. He hadn't been touched, but had felt the power surging in the onrush of wind.

He opened his eyes uneasily. Willing the nausea to pass. His ears, if they were not mistaken, had heard a voice in the thunder. **KUZU RYU SEN**

He shook his head to clear the buzzing while his eyes slowly re-adjusted. Hearing a sickening _skleach, _they widened. The faint sound of thick liquid dewing the grass was all too clear.

The world flooded back.

He reached out his arms to the ground and rose, eyes still lowered, glued on the deer-hide boots in front of him. His gaze slowly traveled up the jet-black hakama, till they reached the redlined hem of a white banner like cloth, long and flowing.

The boy watched horrified, taking in the sight between the man's legs. A bald man lay sprawled on the edge of the cotton field.

He bled idly from the forehead, torso and legs, where large, red-stained gashes, opened up under chunks of missing cloth, farmer's clothing, covering the familiar black. A farmer's flimsy wicker hat lay next to his left arm that was bent at an inhuman angle. The plants nearest him were weighed down and dyed, seemingly grown red from the steadily growing pool around the body. Flecks of flesh dripped off of the pristine green.

Furrows clear though light, lead to him, from where he must have last stood as he charged, to where he had been hurled, where he lay now.

Lay still, lay dead.

This was nothing new to the boy, he hated it all the same.

He winced at the _shnickt_—metal flowing into metal—filling it.

The giant of a man turned. His cloak billowing at his wake. He made long strides, without sparing the large boy a glance.

He followed the man with his eyes, pleading silently. Head shooting down to rein the nausea as he sighted what must be the remains of his other pursuers.

The man had already reached the rocks, without a backward glance. He craned back his neck, slightly, gray-green eyes narrowing, brushing aside strands of raven and gray, he sized up the boy.

Encouraged the boy made to follow. But the man turned away, speeding up.

"Sh-shishou," the boy uttered mutely, shrinking from his strangely unfamiliar voice.

The man stood for a second, "kuso" he spat out.

The silence lengthened.

"So _baka_, you are back."

It wasn't a question. The boy muttered inaudibly, eyes glued to the ground. He missed the man's slight smile.

"You don't expect me to carry you up, now do you?" The boy looked up hopefully.

"Hurry up, dammit!"

His eyes lighted up as he followed his master in scaling the small, near vertical rise. The path ahead was easier. And he knew that large able hands waited, ready to lend themselves whenever he truly needed.

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Kenshin seated himself in the low stool that he had retrieved automatically from its old nook Noting that though many unfamiliar shadows loomed, he could, here and there, sight his past within these four walls. He wondered whether he'd always feel this apprehensive on returning to his old home.

But Kenshin had come with good news and with the firm resolution of delivering it with a smile, regardless of his Shishou's reaction to him, or it.

He heard Hiko clear his throat audibly before he entered. And was shocked enough to nearly gasp as he caught the expression in the man's face, his sharp eyes also caught the two saucers housed in the big man's left palm, the cords of the large jug in his right arm were inevitability. The transformation however was passing, for the moment Kenshin produced a visibly expensive, slender flask from the folds of his gi, the old smirk stole back on his master's face.

Kenshin felt a self-conscious strain as his Shishou completed a quick inspection, taking in everything from the primly tamed red locks, to the gravitating new gi and the unstained near dust free hakama. The bottle cradled in his hands was the crowning touch.

"So baka, you're back?"

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He was dead tired by the time the sun had warmed enough to toy with the sweat drenching him. The cool breeze, with its chilly hint of summer's reign swiftly slipping, that had numbed him all night was a blessing.

His breath came shallow as he mounted a man high boulder. The stony path eased out ahead—a near even stretch of rock, untouched save the skeleton like remains of a dead tree and a small unkempt shack.

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A/N: Salvaging is going strong, but its tiring work and I don't see many actually missing Ashes. In the meantime, a bit more of the intro of Creation.


	3. of the first

**of the first**

_In the beginning, there was a brave boy and a gleaming blade in the heavens._

_And drawn to its radiance, he rose ever higher_

_With it, he conquered summer sun and winter moon. _

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"Hiko, oi Hiko-sama!"

The boy looked up from his calligraphy. The arch of his brow and the low curl of his lip screamed annoyance. His eyes however betrayed him.

"What! Part with one or the other girl. Well, what is it? Can't you see? I'm busy!"

"I've got something! Something _just_ for you."

"And _what_ would that be eh? Another fat toad you've caught at the high pools or maybe a little cat you stole off of the washer woman?"

He stopped, as he saw her face fall, though only for a second.

**I was right! You do have a cat in your room.**

The girl, no "young lady," amused him to no end, though he would never admit it, usually not even to himself. She was hardly a "lady" and her father, his sensei, often said that taming her was the one challenge he could never quite match up to.

"No!" she paused, seeming to consider sticking out her tongue at him," I have something that you want, no need. That you've been pining away like the armorer's widow for." She grinned broadly.

"I have," she stopped, her hands plunging into her obi, "here", she paused again, an impish grin tickling her cheeks "a letter. A letter from the lord, master Tanaka!" Her roundish face shone with glee—eyes tucked beneath smooth folds of skin as the grin broadened further. Hiko swept up to his feet.

The brush clattered onto the little bowl, specking black its already spotted golden-gray surface. His face tightened. The girl, considered tall by many, stood only at his shoulder. In a moment he was at her side.

Hiko nimbly brushed the letter off of her hands before she could tuck it into the folds of her juban and walked off with a satisfied smile.

"All you had to do was ask" she whined.

He could almost see her pouting, but didn't look back.

"Well, you are most_ welcome_!" she added in annoyance as he ignored her completely, walking out of his large chambers with long strides.

Hiko noted that the high candles had been lit along the hallway, though little light still peeked in through the slits in the awning. He had so far found little to complain about the servants of the inner palace. His grip around the rolled and bound parchment tightened.

**I think I'm doing a good enough job of being "lord" in your place tou-san. Don't you?**

"Hiko. Hiko."

"Aa, kaa-san. Would you want something of me?"

"I gave Miatoki that lett—" she stopped as he held up the scroll. With a nod she returned to her chamber and the door creaked shut.

He stood for a second as he heard muffled coughing, hers, from behind the doorway.

**Maybe it's the cat. She does seem to be getting worse.**

His tabi clicked loudly in the long stone passage. But not louder than his thoughts.

**I pray that the imbeciles have fed Kirsha today, Kami help me if I do something I'll regret tomorrow.**

The hall ended in low luminescence from the rice-paperpanels. The empty meeting hall on the other end was bathed in all the light the afternoon afforded.

To the left the passage declined into a smooth low cut staircase. The attendants' quarters were on these lower levels.

To the right the hallway sloped wider and higher. Farther ahead the double doors led onto the high meadow—the northwestern barracks, the captains', the practice hall and "battle-ground" and his sensei's lodgings.

Hiko stepped out onto the packed dirt path, the cool wind swirling around his long loose sleeves. The meadow stretched before him, smooth, green, and level before it dipped abruptly down the hill. The stone wall, below, in the distance, hugged the huge compound like a great gray-green—mossed up snake. Hiko passed by the buildings, nodding to the members of his saburai as they hurried along the pathway from the stone staircase that led up the hillock.

He followed the deepening shadow like it was his path.

The sentry ward rose tall and secular right ahead. The low sun in the horizon cast its long shadow across the plain. Like a pike embedded in the rise by lord Hachiman to stand in attendance to Amaterasu as she descended the many crags of the sky each day. The rough layering of the first wall lay ahead.

Hiko climbed the stone hewn high stairs. He noted the two guards lounging in the parapet, others stood in various postures of ease along the west guard-tower. He entered, unnoticed, into the tiny aviary.

The flutter of wings died down soon, replaced by low contended titters. He stooped low, crossing the dropping strewn enclosure. The door ahead creaked open then shut.

Hiko streched his back, the roof was far higher here.

He looked through the large barred window in front of him. The sun would not be with them much longer. The room rose high and circular, decked with flats and perches. The floor was clean apart from a few cracked bird-bones nearly stripped of flesh.

"Kirrr-shah! Kirr—" he intoned, breaking into a low smooth whistle.

There was a swooshing flapping overhead. A huge bird—a gyrfalcon, though young, landed on the inner sill of the window. Its large circular amber eyes fixed on Hiko as its head moved back and forth. The bird settled completely as he reached forward slowly, stroking the gray-brown downy plumage on the folds of its neck with two large fingers. It nestled the tip of its beak against his thumb.

In a few minutes Hiko exited the aviary, Kirsha perched on the leather pad strapped onto his shoulder. He removed the bird's blinds as soon as the two were back in the wind and the light. They made their way onto the rampart.

The men stood in attention, bowing low as Hiko approached.

"Tanaka-san, good afternoon!"

Hiko nodded, realizing instantly the men didn't particularly want to be in attendance of the sharp-eyed bird or his sharp-eyed master. He passed by them without another word settled on the stone cropped outliers.

Swinging out his legs over the edge, he let loose the bird and slowly unfolded the letter.

The black brush-strokes were shades of dark green in the red-orange glow. A strong shrill cry pierced his thoughts. Hiko smiled. The sound fell slightly, never dulling, as Kirsha alighted the heights, having stretched his magnificent snowstorm wings.

Hiko's eyes wandered back between his hands. He began..

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Yes, this is indeed a very different Hiko. Well, the introduction to the stories, winded and long drawn as they were, are finally complete.

Actual chapters will have both time and place to them, fear not.

Note on the bird: A Gyrfalcon is one of the largest species of falcon. It is depicted as a "king's bird" and is VERY rare in Japan. Both points have context to the story.

A big thanks to **lolo popoki** for her beta work.

"heavier" Japanese terms:

saburai: literally, those who serve, they are the forefathers of the samurai-class.

juban: a casual kimono, usually worn beneath the more ornate kimono types. Used as housewear in the past.

Amaterasu: The "sun goddess" and the omi-kami(prime goddess) of the early shinto sect.

Hachiman: The "war god."


	4. Fourteen, chapter 1

**Fourteen; **Chapter 1

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Kyoto, Higashiyama range, **1881**

Even from one of the lower slopes of Higashiyama the city below looked akin to an overgrown unkempt garden in the half-light.

The timeless guardian had watched over the district beneath its foothill, proving greater than the "great purge" and "great fire."

Advancing from the older structures—simple hues, reflecting superior craft of both wood and stone—the heavy-set buildings stood stooping drunkenly on the narrow streets. These houses were decked in gaudy colors, banners of red and gold, which added gradually to the litter in the streets already strewn with bottle-shards and flyaway paper.

Mid-May was fast approaching and with it the air grew thicker nightly—heavy with the intoxicating haze of sake, spilled on mouths and stones alike.

The revelers had only now begun to mute their drunken yells, seemingly stifled by the semi-solid suffocating air.

And then the sun rose, as it had the day before, and the day before that. Glaring fitfully above the highest peaks of Higashiyama she dissipated the stagnation and the reveling alike.

The air weaved sluggishly through the lanes, driving back the army of merrymakers back to shady retreats.

It was well after noon that drums and trumpets began anew. And with it, life crawled back into the bodies sprawled across delicate laps, tatami floors, or cold flagged stones.

A distinctive figure passed slowly along these streets. His deep blue gi hanging heavily across his slight frame, eyes shaded, head ablaze in the light.

Had it not been for the state of most of the people in sight—slumped in unmoving heaps, only showing life-signs swatting at imagined flies, or reaching over, shakily, for that last intact jar of sake, already tipped a hundred times over—he would have drawn more attention.

Even so, he did not completely escape whistles and cat-calls directed at his very feminine appearance.

It had been a while since he had been in Kyoto around this time of year, _Gion Matsuri_—the flicker of a frown passed his lips as he shifted the longish package on his back. His finger's tightened around the hand-painted cloth-sack in the crook of his arm.

The flurry of red and gold streamers, like leaves seconds ago-were lent a lucid, flowing quality. The nearly dead heaps, the stench of bodies, the odd grunts and the overpowering acrid quality of the very air—the stench, brought a wild look on to his face.

He tugged at the cords on the package at his back, they were already digging into his shoulders. His eyes darted from side to side, desperate for a way out, for escape.

Kenshin picked up his pace, winding his way towards the mountains, eyes set only on the stones at his feet. The dull monotony—gray—soothed his nerves, and once away from the loud jangle, instruments warming up for the day ahead, he eased his strides once more.

It didn't take long for a smile to crease his lips. He reminded himself of the task ahead, amused to no end at just how nervous it made him.

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Kenshin felt a self-conscious strain as his master completed the quick inspection, taking in everything from the primly tamed red locks, to the gravitating new gi and the unstained, nearly dust free hakama. The bottle cradled in his hands was the crowning touch.

"So baka, you're back?"

Hiko Seijuro strode into the hut with a flourish.

Some things never do change—mused Kenshin.

"Uhm, shishou I.."

The large man simply brushed passed him, quite a feat considering the space the two occupied.

"Shishou, I came to.."

"Hungry?" Hiko pointed towards his steadily cooling lunch.

"Huh? Uh no, shishou.."

"You're as dense as ever—baka."

"I came to tell you tha—what?"

"How many times will you call me shishou before it registers in your thick skull? That will no longer be answered."

"But shish-ou oh, I," Kenshin was at his feet again, fighting this new predicament.

"Come on! Let us sit, out. We should not leave this precious one lying."

"Hai, Shis—" Kenshin promptly closed his mouth.

The two trooped out onto the bare plane and headed down an unfrequented path, deeper into the mountains.

Their steps were strangely magnified in the stony corridor they were passing—every birdcall, every whisper in the breeze was a surge back to normalcy. The little incline followed a natural passage in the rock face, sloping down gently. And while the place was cool and damp, there was no shortage of light.

"Out with it! Come on Kenshin."

"Aah, well, you see, I came here with some—I came to tell you that—to tell you that, uh—" the redhead trailed off, finding the stitching in his zori more and more absorbing.

"Yes, I see. Moron."

Without a response to work on Hiko remained silent for the moment.

How did even I manage to raise this, this—? And what have I been able to teach him? Well, at the least, his taste in sake is strong—Hiko reined back his wandering mind as the two returned beneath the sun's watchful eye.

The big man turned suddenly, biting back a grin that had stolen across at the familiar expression—shock, on his pupil's face at the _swoosh. _

"The way I see it. Either you have been kicked out of your home by that little woman. And kami knows you should be glad it hasn't happened sooner—" Kenshin raised both his hands, palms extended, face shifting through expressions with godlike speed. Hiko schooled his own into a tight frown.

"So, you want to move back, eh? Want to return to the mountain, to shishou?"

"Maa maa, I didn't get kicked out.' Kenshin muttered, shaking his head.

"Or. Or, or! You? You've done—you've done it?"

Kenshin's expression hardened at Hiko's incredulity.

"H-hai, shishou."

"Don't you hai shishou me! How, no when? How is she—he or her?"

"Calm down shishou," Kenshin appealed, mischief creeping steadily into his voice.

A moment later, the two sat facing each other, talking.

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Kyoto, Higashiyama range, **1895**

I rise—just a little slower than I would have—liked? wanted? no, then I would have.

The door's already closed, I usually keep it that way these days.

Still, it isn't often that strangers walk these mountains. But this—stranger? No, he may be a stranger to the mountain, but not to me.

I can hear you—I can hear you breathe.

Hmm, and not just content with tramping around, you want to talk to me too eh?

"Is anyone there?" Came a strained yell, almost in answer.

There sure is, boy.

"Anyone? I am Kenji."

My eyes widen—what? did he say?—slightly.

"_Yes shishou. Kenji—my son."_

"Kenji Himura! Son of Kamiya Kaoru.."

..And?

"The master of Kamiya Kasshin Ryu."

"_I've brought him here, to Kyoto, so that you could.."_

"I have come here, alone, from far."

"_He is almost two shishou, he is a strong boy."_

"I've come here to be, to be, strong—stronger."

"_..He will not pick up the sword."_

"I want to learn.."

"_He will rise to his feet unsupported by a sword, sheathed or otherwise."_

"I want to learn swords."

"_In a world of peace, for everyone—anyone."_

"Anyone? Is anyone there?"

"_He will not learn to kill."_

"I will learn—learn Hiten Mitsurugi."

"_I won't teach him."_

"I am Kenji, I will not be denied!"

"_I will not_."

"Teach me!"

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The first chapter of Creation folks.. just a few things to bore you with before you press that button.

The area mentioned is the Higashiyama-ko, or "Eastern mountain district".. a place that mostly escaped the "burning of Kyoto." The festival "Gion Matsuri" is, as many know, held on(and all around :P) 15th June, however, this date was only fixed in the early 1900's..

A big thank you to **lolo popoki** for all her help here.

Fourteen Is one of the three stories in this little collection.. I hope at least a bit of the confusion from the previous chapters has been cleared.


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